The thing that makes me happy:
They come every year around April and in different colors. I seek them among the branches as I would a delectable treasure. They are good at hiding under the leaves, but I find them. Sunshine yellow. Lime green. Sunset orange. And a vivid scarlet.
The best ones to eat are the red ones. I love it when the plump, accordion ridges are ready to burst after they have ripened on the bushes that line the fence.
I silently revel that they are almost the same shade as my nail polish.
As I wash them, my mother tells me childhood recollections of these fruits. In her hometown, there were a series of trees that towered several meters above her. After a rainfall, the emerald blades of grass would be dotted by splashes of warm colors as she and her siblings would scurry to collect them for their home.
I bite into each sumptuous cherry. The best ones, the ones to have reached their peak, have a flavor that is a subdued mixture between Ranier cherries and mangoes. I think back to my Mother's youth and wonder if her child self felt elation from eating something that was undeniably pure.
Having missed out on this little pleasure, that of eating Surinam cherries and sharing the moment with my family for almost three years, I had substituted my tropical cherries with a different variety when I lived in a temperate zone. While the flowers were more aesthetically pleasing, the taste simply wasn't the same. I often take the little things for granted.
As for the thing that doesn't make me happy:
No comment.
Barb the French Bean
